


Seawater and Linen

by orphan_account



Category: The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:00:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3973900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her name is not Zelda, Link is not a hero, and there is no static crackling between them and reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seawater and Linen

“You need to focus more on yourself,” she hums, taking a long drag of her cigarette and rolling her shoulders into a luxurious stretch.  “Quit ripping yourself open to help stitch others back together, you know?”

Her hair is blonde, bright, bright blonde that pours in silken rivers across her shoulders down her chest, and Link is almost blinded by it. He looks away, looks back.  She’s got that hair that looks like somebody wove the sun into thread, a stark contrast to her deep olive skin.

Link can’t decide whether she’s incredibly still or if time has just halted for him, but she doesn’t seem very real.  Something above humanity.  Glowing, but that might be a trick of the setting sun, and the smoke burning his nose reminds him that she does, in fact, exist. quite loudly.  They say she’s the one who all but commanded the piers at the age of ten, the one who kicked annoying boys into the sand, swore up and down like a sailor, came home every night with skinned knees and gritted teeth.

Link would know this; he was the boy in question being stomped into the beach, but also the one who pulled out the antiseptic spray and bandages whenever she crashed too hard against the tide pools. She doesn’t quite seem the same as she did back then, but that also could be a trick of the light.

He stares at her for a while, and then stares through her (she is still blinding, even out of focus), and then draws his gaze across the ocean behind her, dusk skimming the horizon and painting both the sky and sea a rich purple-red.

“Link,” the waves were rolling off rhythm. Link’s hands twitched.

“Link,” he wonders why Zelda wears her hair down, now.  Not that he dislikes it.

“Link, listen to me,” his gaze snaps back up, his hair swishing with the movement, and the breeze catches them both in its salty grasp. Zelda’s lilac dress ripples off-kilter like the waves, and the way the wind whistles in his ears makes Link shiver.

“Link, do you even know where we are?” He shakes his head, no. She sighs, and when Link looks her in the face again, there’s more worry than irritation.

Her voice drops to a firm whisper, “Are you okay?” He shakes his head again.  She doesn’t laugh at him, because she must’ve gotten nicer along the years.  Or maybe just more delicate in the way she handles Link.  Personally, he doesn’t like it, and misses the snark and teasing an awful lot.

“It’s your sister’s wedding.” She breathes out a thick plume of smoke and it billows upwards before dissolving into the wind, “And by now, we’re late. You’re supposed to walk her down the aisle.”

And there he was. Snapped back to reality, a little uncomfortably, and certainly abruptly. The car is parked on the side of the bridge despite the road signs warning against it. She’s Tetra again, and her hair isn’t pinned up like usual because they are supposed to be going to a formal event (not because she’s a different person or a princess and he has no idea why he thinks of her as Zelda sometimes, where did that name come from), and the sun is setting because it’s 6 in the evening and they’re going to be late, late, late.

Link drags his palm against his face, wondering why he has to mess up so terribly and probably put a huge dent in Aryll’s special day.

Quietly, like he always is, he murmurs, “Why aren’t we going, then?”

“Because something’s wrong, and I’ve been trying to have a serious talk with you about it for the last thirty minutes,” She’s fiery again, stern, normal Tetra, and Link wonders why she ever wasn’t Tetra.  She continues, “You seem completely out of touch, all the time,” She tosses her cigarette on the ground, pressing it into the asphalt with her heels, along with some unfortunate weeds sprouting in the sandy cracks. “I’m getting worried.” Her voice wavers, and she curls her hands into fists.  Barely noticeable, but Link has an acquired eye for these things.

He wonders why she’s so angry.  He hasn’t felt angry in months.  Hasn’t felt particularly happy, either.  Just tired, and Tetra looks exhausted, too, darkness under her eyes even makeup can’t veil.  Link doesn't remember ever seeing her in makeup, or a dress, or anything other than clothes that bent at harsh angles and dust instead of rouge for her cheeks.

He tastes salt in the air, iron on his tongue. Tetra walks away, opens the passenger door of the car, waving Link in, and she boards on the other side, starting the engine in silence. A tight turn, and they’re driving away from the sun, away from Aryll and her groom who Link can never remember the name of, away from his grandma, who is probably crying at this point in time, as if she ever isn’t.

Link presses his forehead against the water-stained window and stares at the roadside.  He keeps his gaze off the cusp of the seaside until they drive far enough away for the hills and trees and city to swallow it up.

By the time they reach Tetra’s house, the stars are out. Aryll’s probably dancing with her new husband, gazing at the moon and swaying to whatever cheesy music she had planned. Tetra only pulls off her heels before falling into bed, and Link follows soon after.

The sheets and blankets twist and warble like birdsong as they settle into each other. They don’t ever really fit right; his hair gets in her mouth, her nails dig too deep into his back, their elbows jab and legs tangle in some mess of limbs and ribs and quiet breaths.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Tetra murmurs, running her fingers through Link’s hair. He grunts into the crook of her shoulder he had so comfortably nestled into, thinking that moving his head to speak should be an outright crime.

He does speak, eventually. “It’s that bridge we were parked on.” Tetra traces circles into his scalp with her nails, threatening to lull him into sleep. Cruel, when he’s supposed to be talking. “The ocean. It bothers me.”

Tetra stays silent, waiting for more, but as far as Link's concerned, there is nothing more to say.  


End file.
